


Seaside Villa

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Beach Holidays, Beach House, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sensuality, Sex, Summer, Sweet/Hot, Vacation, beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock enjoy a romantic getaway at a secluded villa along the beach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seaside Villa

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Вилла на побережье](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13773420) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> So I saw two different fic challenges and had an idea for a romantic, beachy, summertime mash-up that fulfilled both the Let’s Write Sherlock Challenge 20: “Time to Get Away” and the yourdailydoseofjohnlock “Pass the Cheese” challenge (which involves using that phrase in the story). And now I’m going to finish packing for my own vacation, which I should have been doing instead of writing this. Hope you enjoy the johnlock getaway.

For the first time in months, Sherlock’s mind and body were calm. He and John were seated at the table on the balcony outside their room enjoying the cool evening breeze blowing off the water. They had just finished a light supper, a bottle of chilled white wine beaded with moisture resting nearby on ice. 

Sherlock’s gaze was trained on the sun setting over the sand and pebble beach, his white linen shirt open loosely at the throat, his neck tanned, his cheekbones and forehead sprinkled with freckles. John wanted to lean across the table and kiss every last one, taking a slow inventory of the past week they’d spent in the sun. 

John had booked the holiday at the secluded villa overlooking the sea, a private home complete with a discreet housekeeper who also happened to be an excellent cook. A gardener came occasionally to tend the lawn and fruit trees. It was, John mused while gazing at Sherlock’s profile, practically paradise.

Of course, nearly any place with sun and warmth would have been magical compared to the grueling months of endless casework they’d just completed. Yet two positives had come from it: one, the unusually fat bank account that allowed this indulgent getaway, and two -- here John smiled to himself, remembering -- the night they shared a first tentative kiss.

It had been a particularly chilly evening as they sat on the sofa at Baker Street combing through police reports trying to find a hole in a suspect’s alibi. It had grown late, the fire casting a faint heat into the room. John sighed, rubbed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the sofa, exhausted. Sherlock threw a stack of papers onto the low table in front of them and leaned his head back as well. They both stared silently at the ceiling, their eyes heavy with fatigue.

John glanced at Sherlock. “We should get some sleep. Start again tomorrow.”

Sherlock rolled his head to the side to look at John, gave a small shrug. “Maybe.”

They locked gazes, trying to gauge which one of them might actually have the energy to stand up and go to bed or sit up and continue working. The look turned into a half-hearted challenge, then a smirk that melted into a fond smile, and then… and then.

John could only remember that they drifted slowly together, Sherlock’s eyelashes lowering before their lips touched. His own eyes closed as their mouths lingered, sensing, tasting, roving, opening gently. They drew slightly apart, breathless with anticipation before softly kissing again.

It had started so quietly, almost sweetly, gradually unfolding over the next few days with tender kisses and exploratory touches, until they grew bolder. Memories of their first time flashed through John’s mind -- mouths buried against necks, fingers digging into waists, stomachs and cocks sliding against each other, legs wrapping around hips...

John turned his face to the sea, letting the cool breeze wash over his now flushed cheeks.

Sherlock stirred slightly, resurfacing from his thoughts, and slid his eyes over to John. He’d been thinking about their afternoon on the beach earlier that day, remembering how smoothly John had swum through the water, his stroke clean and strong. He had watched John rise glistening from the waves, his shoulders broad, his thighs muscular, his hair bleached from the sun.

John jogged up the beach, dropped next to him onto the blanket, smiling and a bit breathless from his swim. Sherlock ran his hand up John’s arm. His skin was cool to the touch.

Sherlock skimmed his hand down John's chest, past his waist, curled his fingers over his groin. He felt John stiffen in his hand, could soon see his erection tenting the wet, clinging fabric of the swim trunks. 

He captured John’s mouth in a rough kiss, rolled on top of him, grit stinging his knees as he ground his pelvis rather obscenely into John's.

John’s hands curved around Sherlock’s hips as he thrust back against the irresistible friction. He loved the weight of Sherlock’s body pressing down on him, craved his heat and hardness. He wanted him now, on this beach, under the glaring sun. 

But then he suddenly remembered the couple he’d seen strolling at one end of the beach and the old man walking his dog at the other. “Wait, Sherlock -- we'll get arrested at this rate.”

“Won’t be the first time,” Sherlock replied, circling his tongue lavishly over John’s left nipple.

“They’ll see. C'mon... let’s get all this sand off and go inside.”

Sherlock reluctantly moved. They rinsed off at the outside tap and retreated to the cool darkness of their shuttered room.

Soon it was nothing but soft bed, damp hair, the taste of briney skin, the roundness of John’s pale buttocks cupped in Sherlock’s long fingers, the arch of Sherlock’s back as John enveloped his cock with velvety mouth and tongue.

John finally turned Sherlock onto his belly, pulled up his hips, positioned himself behind him, stroked his back as he sank inside him. They melded together, building from languid to urgent to sweat-slicked, profanity-laced, rough-moaning, full-out fucking that rattled the antique picture frames on the lemon-colored walls. At last they collapsed into the crumpled pillows, sighing with satisfaction.

Pulling himself back to the present, Sherlock tilted his face up to the fading sun and closed his eyes again, letting his mind dip back into the many deep wells of pleasure. If he had initially complained about this getaway, he certainly had no objections to it now.

John glanced over at Sherlock, who sat immobile again. Still somewhat hungry, John reached for the bowl of fruit, selected a ripe pear that yielded slightly under the pressure of his thumb.

“Could you pass the cheese?" John asked. Sherlock didn’t budge, his mind a million miles away.

“Hullo? The cheese?” John tried again. Nothing.

John stretched gracelessly over the table and grabbed the platter. 

“You’re a useless wanker,” he teased, testing to see if Sherlock was really listening.

Not a muscle twitched.

John cut a slice of pear with a small sharp knife, followed by a sliver of earthy sheep's milk cheese.

“You’re the worst dressed detective in London," John said casually, eating another slice of sweet fruit off the knife, "and you can’t deduce your arse from your elbow.”

Still no reaction.

John shook his head, amused. Several moments passed, then he turned more serious. He wanted to say something important... Sherlock might not even hear it, and that might be a good thing, actually. John's eyes dropped to the white flesh of the pear in his hand, which he studied intently before speaking again.

“I might be in love with you.”

John held his breath, flicked his eyes up. No response. 

And then Sherlock slowly turned his head. “Might be?”

John swallowed. “Maybe.” He swore he could see the pulse in Sherlock's throat beating much more quickly than normal. “Yes.”

Sherlock ran a fingertip through the moisture on the outside of his glass, not looking at John. “Well... that’s good. Because I might feel the same way about you.”

They both glanced up at the same time, momentarily terrified.

“It’s not just this place, is it?” Sherlock finally asked, uncertain. “Making us say this...?”

“No, it isn’t,” John answered with a small smile, regaining confidence. “We’re good together. Everywhere. Anywhere.”

Later that night, intertwined under the soft white sheets, Sherlock settled his head on John’s bare chest, the sound of his steady heart more calming than the ocean waves outside their window. John played with the hair just above the nape of Sherlock's neck, working his fingers through the curls knotted by the salt air.

“Let's retire by the seaside someday,” Sherlock murmured lazily.

“Whatever you want, love.”

Sherlock stilled. No one had ever used any sort of romantic endearment with him before. Much to his surprise, he didn't hate it. He hid the unexpected upward curve of his mouth against John's sun-darkened skin. He wondered when John would say it again.

They had another six days of paradise to find out.


End file.
